Free From You
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: For PadawanMage.NO SLASH.Please RR! Thank you!Follow Lancelot from the moment of Arthur's refusal to the battle against the Saxons no matter what pain the Roman causes him, Lancelot cannot stop loving, and this love is dangerously unconditional.


A/N: YAY! Another KA FIC! WHEE! And I haven't read this through, yet - really read it, I mean...But I think...Just maybe...It kicks some ass...And it's a nice length too. Another one-shot, by the way. Please Read and Review! Thank you so much!

Listen to the song**_Daffodil Lament_** by the Cranberries.

* * *

Free From You

_For PadawanMage_

* * *

He was drowning. He stood alone in the darkness, in the distorted torchlights, and he was drowning. Why had Arthur let him go? Why had the Roman's hand slipped away like water? His captain had stalked off, leaving him when he was crying out to be saved. Why wasn't Arthur saving him? He had saved the Roman countless times, and Arthur has always come to his rescue before. He didn't understand. What had he done wrong? Arthur didn't love him anymore. Their friendship meant nothing. His world had just disintegrated, and it had to be his fault. No, he answered himself. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't something he did. He had simply been replaced. Friendship had no chance against romance. The lady stood in his place now, within Arthur's heart. All Lancelot could do was hold on for as long as possible. All he could was keep breathing, until the air stopped coming. He had been right. He was going to die in battle, and it the next one he chose, to save himself any more days of pain induced by Arthur's negligence of him.

Until tomorrow, all he could do was keep breathing. And wasn't that the way it had always been? He was always on the threshold of death, always waiting for the next fight, always about to offer his flesh unto a blade. He had been playing the game since day one, all for Arthur. He had never let go, because he had known Arthur needed him to stay. He had kept himself alive for the Roman, and now Arthur had tossed him aside.

What was left to him now? Arthur had told him to go home. He was no longer wanted. He was no longer needed. His friend would ride to death tomorrow without him, supposedly, and he would never be thought of. How could he just turn his back on Arthur and go home? How was he supposed to stop thinking about his captain altogether? But that's what his captain was telling him to do. Erase the past fifteen years from your mind. Erase the memories. Forget Artorious Castus. Forget the friendship he once shared with you. It does not exist. It never existed. Go home. The words were rocks in Lancelot's limbs, pulling him to the bottom of the sea. Did Arthur really feel that way? He called Lancelot friend, but did he mean it? How could he, if this is what he was doing to the knight? Was Lancelot supposed to smile? _It's all right, Arthur. Wound me again, Arthur. Wound me again. _Lancelot always smiled for Arthur. Why stop now? But he had. He hadn't forced a smile before Arthur abandoned him. He couldn't. Not this time. But would he smile in the morning, as he rode home? Would he smile because it was the strong thing to do, the manly thing? If he did, would it make his tears suddenly vanish? He doubted it.

Arthur didn't care, he realized. The Roman wasn't going to say farewell or try to top him. He was going to clad himself in armor and let Lancelot go. He was going to release the knight from service and no tear would flee his eye, no regret would touch his face, no longing would fill his heart. Lancelot would not even be missed or thought of. A savage woman flaunted her beauty and Arthur was suddenly willing to fight for her whole people, sacrificing his friendship and loyalty to his knights and his own life. Lancelot wanted Arthur to hear every click of his armor fastening and watch him mount his horse and ride away without looking back. He wanted every sound of it to cause the Roman pain, but he knew that even Arthur did watch the Sarmatians head off, no emotion would be stirred by it. Arthur wasn't even going to see him off tomorrow, Lancelot realized. He wasn't going to feel the absence of his men in the least, while his absence would forever haunt Lancelot's soul.

Perhaps Galahad, Gawain, Tristan, and Bors could bear to leave Arthur now, but Lancelot could not. Arthur's words had not been false. Lancelot _was _the one who knew the Roman best. They had been the closest of friends since the beginning, the closest of all the original fifty knights. Lancelot had taken to Arthur from the moment of their first meeting, when the Sarmatian boy had arrived at their base and the Roman had been waiting. If Lancelot closed his eyes, he could see the moment clearly…

"Greetings," the Roman said, scarcely taller or older than his new knights. Why would a boy be strapped into a Roman officer's uniform and sent to fight so far from home? "What is your name?" His eyes were gentle and gray in the clouded afternoon.

"Lancelot," the boy astride the black stallion answered. He had intended to be hostile, planning his cold words all along the journey from Sarmatia, but this Roman's face melted his bitter grudge away. He stared at the foreigner with wide, intense eyes.

"Lancelot," the Roman echoed. "I am Artorious Castus, and you are my knight." They did not smile, only remained in their locked gaze. Something was understood in that moment, something bonded. The boy with thick black curls knew it then. He was Arthur's knight. He was Arthur's.

And he still was. Lancelot realized this as he opened his eyes to let down the tears. He had been Arthur's knight since that moment, fifteen years ago, and he still was. He was still Arthur's friend, and his heart was still bound to the Roman's. He was never going to be freed. It was a lie he had believed this whole time, but a lie it was and nothing more. He was not like the other knights. They had not received the same words from Arthur's lips upon their arrival. They were not his forever, only for a time. Arthur had not chosen to tie them down to the earth of his soul. He had only chosen _Lancelot_. He had bound himself to _Lancelot_. He had bound Lancelot to himself. Neither could be free from the other. Neither could be whole without the other. Arthur did care, Lancelot concluded. Arthur did love him, he wept. The knight turned on his heel, his limbs suddenly unfrozen, and he fled Arthur's rooms. He had to stop the Roman before it was too late. He had to tell him how he felt. He had to make sure Arthur had not replaced him with Guinevere.

He had to tell him he couldn't be free. _I can't be free from you, Arthur._

"Arthur," he called out, though he was too far from the Roman's room to be heard. "Arthur." He had to let the name fly from his lips, to fill the night so that Arthur may live forever. _I can't live without you._

"Arthur," he shouted. How many times had he cried out the name before? How many battles and how many quests, how many times when he had been wounded or afraid? Too many in his memory, too many scars carved in his skin. His legs couldn't carry him fast enough. He was running blindly, tears streaking the air around him and visions in his head - visions of Arthur's silver breastplate glinting, his scarlet cape rippling as he rode, the magnificent legs of his white stallion flexing, the hooves pounding into the soil, Arthur's face somber and his eyes alive. How could Lancelot sever himself from the Roman? What home was left to him in Sarmatia now? He knew not if his family yet lived, but Arthur's glory and nobility would live forever. He could not survive apart from it, or be anything but a warrior. What was he thinking? Enlist into the Roman army? Not a chance, he knew. But he could fight for Arthur…He could pledge his allegiance to Arthur for as long as he drew breath, and they could ride across the world to vanquish evil and imprint their names in history's everlasting book. _Stop it,_ he chided. _That's insanity._ _You know that will never happen._ He didn't care. As long as he was home. As long he was free. As long as he was in his friend's company.

"Arthur," he cried, stumbling down the corridor, torches blazing in his wake. Desperation had consumed him now, as haste carried him toward Arthur's room, passing in and out of shadow and light. Arthur had to know. Arthur had to listen to him speak, hear him pour his heart out. He had to stop the Roman from committing this suicide mission. They could be free together. They could ride away from this miserable island and achieve greatness for themselves, and they would never have to part ways. He had to tell Arthur this. The Roman didn't have to settle for fifteen years of Lancelot's friendship. He didn't have to fight this battle to win Guinevere's love. There was another way. "Arthur." _There is another way._

His body collided with the door, and he breathed in relief. He had arrived. He yet had time before the dawn. He could claim his hope. He smiled to himself, as his hand slid down the wood to the latch handle, ready to fling it open. Yet after a minute with his ear against the door, the sounds from beyond it became clear to him. Gasping and moaning was muffled by the wood. As his face fell, his hand curled around the latch and pressed down. It was locked. His hope suddenly brought down, like a fleeing stag hit unaware by the hunter's arrow, Lancelot slid to the floor. He was shattered, and his soulful eyes revealed it nakedly. His heart had suddenly stopped beating, and he curled against the door and into himself. His hope was lost. He was replaced. There would be no convincing Arthur now. Their ties had been severed. He accepted this, pushing the proverbial dagger into his heart, and he surrendered to Guinevere. She was a woman. What could he do to keep Arthur from her? Lancelot wrapped his arms around his knees, hugging them to his chest, and closed his eyes. The tears flowed uncontrollably, as he listened to Arthur and Guinevere making love.

He had dragged himself away from the door and back to his room, somehow. He did not know how many hours it had been since he first fell to the ground. He had been sent away from his friend, crawling in agony, and nothing mattered anymore. His words fell apart in his head, and the letters were like pieces of glass, catching the light as they rained. His emotions were inescapable and overwhelming, leaving him sick and fevered, as if he were physically wounded. Though he clutched at his chest, the pain would not subside. It shot through his system as he sat on Arthur's doorstep and held him back every step of the way back to his room. But it was all right. Nothing mattered anymore. Lancelot would never be given a chance to save his friend. He would never be given a chance to tell Arthur the truth, to speak his feelings. He would never be given a chance to taste his dreams. Never would he be free. Not in this life. Not from his captain. _I can't be free from you._

He coiled onto the bed, his fingers digging into the coverlet whenever he sobbed into his pillow. It was the middle of the night and no time for wailing. He was left to his sorrow alone, without any ale to drunken him and dull his senses, without anyone to tell him it would be all right. All that was left to him were tears and the hope that if he cried enough, the pain would not be so much in the morning. Curled into a ball, Lancelot stared into the candle flame, the light dancing in his glazed eyes. His tears leaked from the corners soundlessly and slid down the curves of his face. Sobs were turned into shudders that matched his erratic heartbeat. If only it would stop beating, he thought. If only he didn't have a heart. His eyes squeezed together, blinding him, as a barrage of tears came forth. If only he were not human, but some other creature without a heart – a creature who did not love or lose or weep. No pain would touch him then. No pain…

"If You are real," he gasped. "You who he speaks too with so much more trust than he ever had in me, I would ask You to kill this love. Kill this love so that I may not endure this suffering any longer." He shouted into the darkness, at the wall immersed in shadow across from him. "I would give up my love for him," he murmured. "I would give it up, and I don't care. So long as I am spared this." He knew no one was listening, but he could not keep the words inside of him any longer. "I don't want to love him anymore," he whimpered, inducing more pain with his own words. "I want to be free."

_I can't be free from you._

"Arthur," he began, the flame completely blurred in his eyes. "All I've ever done was love you." His heart clenched past his endurance and he stifled a mewl. "All I've ever done was be your friend. All I want is your love, any part of it, no matter how small it is. I would take it if fit into the palm of my hand or the eye of my tear, so long as you have some to spare. All I want is your friendship," he cried. "Why is that so much to ask?" He was shouting now, forgetting the time and the fact that the rest of Hadrian's Wall was asleep. "All I want is for you to live." His voice had suddenly died to a whisper. "All I want is for you to live," he echoed. He rolled over, his back to the candlelight and his tears falling in the face of a stone wall. "I can't go home. My home is with you. I cannot go." His eyes had shut, tears yet slipping away, but he did not open them again.

When Lancelot woke, he found himself enveloped in warmth. His fur skin had been pulled over him, though he did not remember doing it. Pushing this oddity from his mind, he sat up and rubbed his sore eyes, hoping they were not notably swollen and red. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to know he had been weeping, least of all Arthur, if the Roman turned up to bid farewell. He only allowed himself a moment's pause to dwell in the depression that thoughts of his captain brought, before pulling himself out of bed to start packing away his things. The coverlet, fur skin, and extra clothes were shoved into his bag and he tucked his barely worn helmet into its case. Though he was riding home, he strapped himself into his armor and slid his swords into place. His family would greet a warrior, not the boy they had bid farewell to so long ago. He tried to picture what they would look like now, what sort of his woman his sister had turned into. Part of him reminded that they might not even be alive. He stopped thinking about it altogether.

Once he had stripped the place of his belongings and his bags were heavy on his back, he gave one final glance at his room in Hadrian's Wall, knowing he would not see it again, and left. The narrow corridor looked no different then it had hours before, when Lancelot had fled to Arthur's rooms. The darkness was unchanged, and the torch flames flickered as he passed. He refused to flinch, and his footfalls were nearly silent somehow. He wondered if Arthur lay asleep still, Guinevere's Woad body nestled beside him. His face fell, and he watched his boots taking him away from his last chance. They were a faded black compared to his eyes. And suddenly, with every step, a vision flashed through him.

The knights numbered fifty at Arthur's round table. _Behold, what glory awaited them._

He arrived at Hadrian's Wall, a boy of fifteen, his eyes locked into the young Roman officer's. "You are my knight." _Lancelot had always been his._

The first of the knights was slain, and Arthur did not weep. _He was glad it wasn't Lancelot._

Lancelot had been wounded for the first time. _Arthur had held his hand._

Arthur had grown into a man. _He still looked at Lancelot with the same eyes._

Lancelot saved Arthur's life. _Arthur saved Lancelot._

The remnants of Arthur's round table played in the snow, like children – Tristan, Galahad, Gawain, Dagonet, Bors, and Lancelot. _They knew they were dying men._

The ice was broken, and Dagonet was dead. _Bors cried as if he were not a warrior._

Tristan freed the hawk. _It had always been free._

Arthur carried Guinevere into the snow. _She was bound to him from then._

Arthur turned to suicide. _For the sake of our friendship, I beg you…_

Arthur broke Lancelot's heart. _I can't be free from you._

Light flooded the corridor, as he pushed the chosen door open and stepped into the morning chill. He squinted in the daylight, surveying his desolate surroundings. Silence hovered in the open air. After a pause, Lancelot strode to his left, the sound of his boots filling the world, it seemed. A boy met him around the corner, offering the reins of his horse unto the knight. He took them, his gaze lingering on the young Briton for a moment. One day, the boy would be a man. What innocence lay in his face now would wither away with the passing years, as Lancelot had experienced. The Sarmatian wondered if the boy had a best friend.

"Lancelot," said Gawain, in a voice that cut clear through the silence. "Finally, you join us." He grinned as he pulled on one of his gloves.

"Today is the day," Galahad murmured, looking to the wilderness beyond the gate. "Today we go home."

"We're free men, lads," Bors said merrily, coming from Lancelot's right with a bottle in his hand. "And I thus have ale for the road." He chortled heartily and grinned at Lancelot, who failed to break his somber face.

"We were always free men," Tristan remarked, surveying the skies in a hawk-like manner.

" Aye, free men who could freely ride across the Roman Empire with its army hunting them down," Gawain said sardonically, earning laughter from Galahad and Bors.

"In that case," Tristan said in response. "We would have been free to kill as many of those bastards who would dare confront us." The others laughed, save for Lancelot, who could not stop a twitching grin. "And we would have been free to die afterwards."

"Why do you have to put a damper on everything?" Gawain asked rhetorically.

"Come on, lads," Bors summoned as he turned his horse. "Let's go home."

Guards appeared on the other side of the gate and pulled it open, seemingly letting in a new light from the world beyond. The knights filed out one by one, and Bors' woman and children suddenly joined the rear. Lancelot rode with his head bowed in melancholy, the procession of knights descending the familiar road around the hills that were blanketed in green. He refused to listen for the buzzing presence of the Saxon army and refused to look to where Arthur would charge down at them from. He did not look to the skies, where the sun had unraveled its shroud of glory for battle days like this one. He did not look for the crimson thread woven into its colors, fearing Arthur's death would be foretold. He did not look back. He gave Arthur what the Roman had wanted. He had obeyed his captain's last command.

Bors suddenly broke from formation and faced the hills beyond the wall, bellowing out as his fist rose up above him. "Artorious." The name rang in Lancelot's head like victory, and he turned to look where his comrade did. At the hilltop, where the sky met the green, a lone figure was silhouetted against the painter sky, a Roman banner flapping above his head. The buzz of the Saxon army followed the Sarmatian's yell, and the knights stared long at the mythical image before them, mesmerized. The rider did not move or answer. Bors' cry reverberated in his ears, and Lancelot smiled. He knew what he had to do. His eyes sharpened in their gaze upon the Roman's god-like form. The sun's glory shroud stretched out above him and glinted in his eyes. He grabbed the Roman standard from the boy behind him and urged his stallion to turn back. The hoof beats clapped on the road and the banner rippled.

Arthur peered over his shoulder, certain that the earth carried sound unto him. A stallion galloped swiftly toward him, its black coat shining in the dawn like the rider's eyes. Lancelot wore the helmet of a country not his own, bearing the banner of his captors. The wind had caught his mount's mane and tail, the standard and the helmet's crimson tail. Damn him, the Roman thought gladly. Arthur grinned, and Lancelot was at his side, smiling. Gawain and Galahad, Bors and Tristan, surrounded the two. They were whole again. Lancelot was free.

"Damn your loyalty," Arthur murmured to Lancelot, unheard by the others.

"Damn your heroism," Lancelot replied, good-naturedly. They were together again.

The skies had turned to gray, an ocean of clouds hiding the colors. Evening fog had turned into smokestacks, scattered throughout the battlefield. The Saxons and the Woads fought viciously, and five knights had disappeared into the chaos. Bodies lay strewn over the earth already, though many more yet lived and fought. The horses had abandoned the peril of their riders. The wilderness reduced the noise to faint clatters in the middle of a green and gray country, and people a mile away would not know of the bloodshed that resided so near to them. They would not know of the love or the tragedy. They would not know of the torn knight. They would not see the glory.

He had made his choice. He was a free man. This was his battle. This was his death. Arthur loved Guinevere. Lancelot loved Arthur. It was to her side that the knight flew, though his friend that fought behind him was the one he carried in his heartbeat as he ran. He flung his body into the Saxon, as she staggered back, bleeding over her blue paint. Lancelot swung his swords at his enemy and thought the paint was like the blueberry Arthur had picked for him last spring, when he had been wounded. Though the earth was consumed by ash and shadow, he tried to remember the white blossoms that trembled in the meadows, how beautiful they were when he woke after three fevered days. Arthur had smiled. A flower had been tucked in the knight's breast pocket.

Metal clashed with metal, but Lancelot watched Gawain chasing Galahad through the meadows. One Sarmatian blade sliced through a Saxon throat, but Lancelot could only see Tristan lingering in the tree's shade, hawk perched on the warrior's arm. Swing, turn, strike, block, and Dagonet grinned at something Bors said. Turn, swing, parry, stab, and Arthur sat near him with peace in his eyes. Another man fallen, and he could see the flower in his fingers. Guinevere stood watching, chest heaving and arms loose at her sides with ax and blade in hand. Lancelot turned, and Saxon eyes were there.

His curls flung back with his head, and he missed Cynric's smirk. All he had felt was something interrupt his heart's racing. The pain he had expected never came. He could not see the Woad lady's horrified expression. His arms fell, and he dropped his swords. Now came the peace Arthur had dreamed of. He gazed heavenward, his soulful eyes glinting at the gray sky. Glory shone through any cover. The sun had not departed. It would break the clouds again. He could see the crimson in the shroud.

Lancelot's knee bent, followed by the other, and he slowly sunk to the ground. Guinevere was frozen in her stance, her lips parted in disbelief. He could fell himself sinking, but he wasn't drowning this time. The battle noise had dissipated, and he could only hear the song Bors' woman had sung. He was going home. He was going unto hope. His back met the ground, and his curls bounced once. He did not break gaze with the sky. Where was Tristan's hawk? He could hear it screeching, calling him home. He did not believe Tristan would return as a stallion. His dead comrade would come was a hawk. Lancelot smiled.

His fingers flexed open, and both his palms were turned upward. He waited for relief to come. The Sarmatian could see his sister running toward him, smiling. Her arms were outstretched. Arthur gave him unto her, eyes full of sorrow without tears. Why was he sleeping? He was a boy again. She took him from the Roman's embrace, and suddenly he was arching in the wind. His flesh turned into velvet, and the black of his eyes melted into his limbs. He was a stallion, running free in the wilds, running free in the hills. _Good bye, Arthur._

"No," the Roman screamed. Saxons lay dead, but he had no victory. Guinevere's eyes met his. She was kneeling in the soil. Friendship lay dead before her.

Lancelot wrapped his arms around the captain's form, closing his eyes as he felt the embrace with his entire soul. He let Arthur weep. Guinevere would heal his wounds with time. The Sarmatian had proven his love – now, he could only give this final farewell. _I love you, Arthur. _Arthur could feel him in his every vein. _You are my brother forever. _Arthur couldn't stop the tears.

"I love you, too," he whispered, kissing the knight's brow. "Brother." Lancelot buried his face into Arthur's shoulder, before letting go. Arthur could feel the ghost kiss gracing his own brow. He let the tears come.

_I am never free from you. I don't want to be._


End file.
